


The Last 100 Lifetimes

by nebulyx (strikereurekapitcrew)



Series: Notos [1]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Nonbinary Sheik, POV Second Person, Sheik is a Separate Character, and for that i apologize, the character death is canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 21:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17733047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikereurekapitcrew/pseuds/nebulyx
Summary: “Who am I to you?” he reiterates, gold eyes boring into them.“For the last hundred lifetimes, you weren’t,” they say, ruby eyes staring back. “And my soul languished.”---A collection of B-Side type snippets inspired by dialogue from a much larger fic in progress. Sheik/Gan centric, relationships and tags added as the work progresses. Invariably angsty, tread with caution.





	The Last 100 Lifetimes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StudioRat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StudioRat/gifts), [bluemoodblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemoodblue/gifts).



> Ultimately, I'd like to thank StudioRat for the blessing of inspiration that is East Wind. Without it, I don't think that I ever would've danced back into writing Zelda fics, let alone Ganon-centric ones. I would also like to thank bluemoodblue for listening to me cry about everything on discord.

You are seven and he is ten. He is already much bigger than you are, but that's to be expected. his amber eyes are kind, and his red hair is cropped short. The adults call him rambunctious, you see, and he doesn't like to sit still so that his hair can be oiled and braided properly. Cutting it close to his skull is the most viable option.

He is a prince, but he does not act like one. How could he? You are a child, at least by standards belonging to everyone but the Sheikah, and he is only three storms older than you are. Soon, he will be sent to the sands in hopes that the Goddess will send back a warrior and a king. You think this is unfair, but this is the way of the Gerudo. _Destined_ , they call him. _Prodigy_ , they called you.

You are not supposed to be here. You are not supposed to be _alive_.

It's yet to settle in, your parents being gone. Your village burnt and your people murdered, desecrated.

_Desecrated_. That will become a theme, repeating and repeating like an ornate temple window.

You remember the well, the marrow-deep rage you felt coming from beneath it.

You remember the smell of charred flesh. Sometimes, when the wind howls, you mistake it for screams. You do not cry about this, because it is not allowed.

Mostly, you remember the temple. You remember how angry the spirits were, remember hiding, remember the creeping feeling of Death prepared to devour your young flesh. You remember being watched, but you also remember your ancestors keeping you safe from Hylian soldiers.

You are seven and have lost your home, and then they strip your name, a carefully chosen prayer to the Goddess Din. They call you Sheik. Orphan. Bastard. Nameless. _Shadow_. It does not matter why, it simply _is_.

They say that you survived to serve a purpose. You cannot possibly understand what that means, but you are alive.

_You are alive_. 

There are rumors of an extant tribe of Sheikah somewhere beyond the sea of sand, but they are unconfirmed. You and the Princess' Sentinel are all that is left, but all that anyone knows is that it is only Impa.  _Only_ Impa.

Nameless. Shadow.

_Orphan_.

 

You are not with the Gerudo long before he goes on his journey, but you feel as though you've known him your whole life. He leaves in the night. You hold his older sister's hand and watch with the others, wrapped in the only scrap of cloth that you were able to take from home. You are afraid, silently, that he will not come home. That the Goddesses will take him from you like they took everything else.

But he promises, a smile that is all sun. _Light the gold lantern and keep it burning_ , he tells you. _That will help me find my way home._

You are seven, almost eight. But you were training to be an acolyte, a pious warrior, the way all the younglings of your dead home once were. You know about keeping vigil.

So, you light the lantern and wait. You keep the oil reservoir where it needs so that it doesn't go out once while he's gone.

 

The sands eat the boy you love and return him a king.

 

You turn eight. The Hylian king ends the war. His wife is dead, but his daughter is not. His daughter who will be raised by your aunt. Your people are gone. The people who shelter you suffer from the accords that ended the war and benefit everyone but them. They are strong. Like the Hylian Shadows, now extinguished, these women show no fear where it can be seen. You know concern, the ripples of worry that take root in even the strongest of places, like ivy set to tear apart foundations.

You strap your ancestors to your back like a water skin and carry on against the biting sands, for the elders raising you and the younglings who will come to follow.

  
  
  


You are ten and he is thirteen. 

You are taller now, lean and reedy, but he still dwarfs you. His hair is longer, more frequently braided back now. He is no longer the hyperactive inquisitive child he used to be; Ganondorf is well on his way to becoming as regal as the lords you remember traipsing through your dead home.

Sun, they call him in reverence. He has many epithets now, but none so polarized. The sun can be so torturous here. Life giving and death bringing, but the way that it touches you at first light, the way its gentle rays warm your soul. Yes. That suits him best, you think.

You both train. There is no time for play anymore. He works harder than you do, and you've always worked harder than any child around you. Something to prove, maybe not to anyone else, but to yourself. With him, it's the opposite. He works to become the kind of king that his people deserve, the kind of king who will lead the Gerudo to Salvation. But you see him. You truly see him. It's a Sheikah gift, you've heard it said.

Though his eyes are colder now, they turn on you and you see the kindness and warmth still there, however buried. His heart is still so strong and real, and he wants nothing more than to protect his people, to lead them to prosperity. 

You train, so that you can help him. If your home was still living, you would be almost finished with your training, ready to be moved to something more specialized.

But you are ten, and like the other children, you are sent to the sands to find yourself, bury your youth, earn your name, and make your way. Your young king, your best friend, sends you off with the others with a secretive smile, and a reminder about the gold lanterns leading you home.

You must make it back, he insists, so that you can finally learn to best him in combat. You scoff at his self-assured attitude and set out, cloak wrapped around your nose and mouth. You keep to the red flags, feel the hands of your people at your back. With eyes that see past illusions, you see the flickering light of a poe before you.

You don't have to ask for their help. They turn into a feminine figure before your eyes, a witch neither Sheikah nor Gerudo, and their hands join the ones already pressing at your back. Firm, steady.

The sands devour what remains of your old life, burying the answer to that careful prayer to Din under miles and miles, golden grains filling every crevice to seal the tomb. 

The Colossus looks down at you impassively. You try not to note how striking the resemblance is between the Witchpoe and the statue, and how the realization makes your skin crawl.

The Spirit Temple is what really eats you. Devours what is left of Sheik, orphan bastard shadow, spitting out the gristle and bones that lay the foundation for Sheik, Shadow Warrior. You turn eleven, crying from exhaustion on the Temple, and are welcomed home at the dawn many days later, dehydrated but alive, by the boy king and your sisters.

Sun's Shadow, like everything else sang in the Gerudo, is musical and lovely, and sounds like home.

  
  
  


Sun's Shadow is epithet and duty in equal measure. You best the boy king easier and easier every day. This is good, the elders tell you, because if you can best him, then you can do whatever you need to in order to protect him. 

You hoped that he would be proud of you, but you are fourteen and foolish, and the scowl that Ganondorf gives you makes you lock the flutterings of your heart away. 

_ Sun's Shadow.  _

Always a step behind, always prepared to keep him safe. Like the moon, always chasing the sun, on and on. Never crossing, never meeting, breathing only when he suffocates himself to let you.

No longer the carefree child who followed at the heels of their friend, now a stoic, cold warrior burying the sparks of an early love behind stone and sand and shadow. A living weapon you were always going to be, the weapon that they made you.

A prayer to Din for the power to change fate.

 

You are seventeen and he is twenty when he tells you of his plans, plans that the Rova have supported wholeheartedly. Your people are already starving,  _ we steal to survive, a failed attempt at usurping the King of Hyrule will kill us, kill you, I- we can't lose you- please, don't go where I cannot do my duty, don't go where I cannot protect you- _

You are seventeen the first time he shows you affection. Presses soft lips to your forehead, the whisper of a promise that he will soon break, and your heart along with it.

You turn eighteen the day that Impa comes for you, to take you away from your sisters. You are eighteen when they take your name, your face, the life you have made in the Fortress, and the man that you love so desperately that you'd give your life for, duty or not.

You teach the Princess. You have no choice.

When the time comes, you also teach Farore's Chosen. You guide him through the trauma of loss. You guide him between times. You love him because it is what he deserves, because you know what it means to be a child forced to the horrors of adulthood far before your time. You _love him_  because fills the ache of loss, of losing your king, your sun.

 

Like everything else, Zelda takes him too.

 

You are exiled after you have fulfilled your duty to the Hylian crown, made to drag yourself in secret and exhaustion back to the sands. You let the bone white sand outside the temple devour blood from knuckles broken and bloodied by punching the sacred stones in rage.

The Witchpoe returns and offers you a gift that you are in too much pain to refuse. The power of the gods, the power to change your fate. The gift of remembering.

You are 24.

 

And then you are 17.

Your king is young, the madness that will swallow him whole not yet settled in.

He does not listen this time.

You follow him to Hyrule.

You risk life and limb to bring his desecrated and defiled body home.

Desecrated. Yes, you remember the echo of morbid motif.

You feel your soul fracture, hearing the future Sage of Spirit wail at the sight of her brother, dead and mutilated for blasphemy against the Three, against Hylia and her people.

His people’s love, extinguished.

_ You failed him. _

The sorrow lets you live long enough to see the world turn blue and silver once more.

 

You are 16. Your king is alive. He doesn’t understand why you sob in relief, simply kisses your face when you’re done wailing.

You dream of holy wounds, blinding white and bloody where his armor covers his diaphragm, where the topaz hangs over his forehead. Holy wounds, and a hero clad in green who you're not sure is real or a figment of your tired, fragmenting mind.

Sometimes, when the desert winds howl, you can hear screams. You think that they're the hero's. They might be yours, or your king’s.

But you carry on against sandstorms and blistering heat, and worry quietly about the nature of fate.

Time… carries on.

 

And then, it turns back.


End file.
